


Half of Sorrow

by coloredink



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-16
Updated: 2007-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greater the hope is, the greater the lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half of Sorrow

"I have always wanted to bed a Judge," Balthier says against his mouth, hands seeking out and finding the clasps that keep Basch's hands from him. He has not forgotten after a year apart; the gauntlets loosen and fall away, one by one. Then the belt, then the cuirass, Basch's hands--warm and sweaty from the gauntlets--tangling with his and then slipping away again, in the interest of parting armor from leather and skin. His beard does not rub and burn against Balthier for once, when they kiss, and it is strange to him; he must kiss Basch all the more, then, to reacquaint himself with this strange, familiar territory.

"I am the same," Basch murmurs against his jaw. "Judge Magister or no."

"You are not," Balthier replies without force. "But it does not much matter to me." He kneels, then, to unfasten the greaves; he can feel Basch tremble just slightly, with anticipation or trepidation both.

When Basch is at last unburdened, they tumble to the bed, kissing and biting. Basch's hands tangle in Balthier's hair and come away blackened; Balthier laughs and helps him to wipe them on the sheets, and Basch protests--however will they explain it to the servants the next morning? But the morning is tomorrow, and today, at this moment, Basch will unlace Balthier's shirt and pry down his trousers and touch him. Balthier purrs and says yes, yes, like that, no, stop, so that he can pull Basch's shirt over his head. Basch smells like leather and metal and sweat; Balthier must lick his shoulder, to see that Basch still tastes the same. The trousers are next to go, and the pants, and after that it is blessed skin against skin, Balthier's hand against the hair on Basch's chest, paler and finer than the hair on his own, their thighs tangled against one another.

"Have you anything for slick?" Balthier queries, his mouth against Basch's shoulder.

Basch takes a long, shuddering breath and halts his rocking against Balthier's thigh. "I know not," he says; the words are thick and slow in coming. "I have--I believe I have a potion."

Better than a potion; Balthier finds an ether in Basch's pouch and brings it back to the bed, where Basch lies half-wrecked and debauched, his hair messed and his cheeks flushed, lips bruised from kissing and parted slightly. He closes his eyes when Balthier unstops the phial and pours some of the philtre into his hand, and his throat bobs as he swallows. Balthier holds the ether in his hand a moment to warm it, then wraps his hand around Basch's prick. Basch gasps and moans through his teeth as Balthier begins a leisurely pumping motion, on occasion rubbing the palm of his hand over the head. Basch's breath hitches.

"Come here," Balthier murmurs, tugging Basch up by the shoulders. Basch is sluggish, but comes willingly, and his senses mend when Balthier turns on the bed so that his back is to Basch. Basch touches him on the shoulder, briefly.

"No," Basch says. "No, look at me."

Balthier is inclined to protest--this way is easier--but he finds himself strangely moved, all the same, and acquiesces. They face each other then, as they lie down, Balthier's legs in the crooks of Basch's elbows, and Basch bows his head and sighs as he presses into him. Balthier closes his eyes, as he always does, and feels Basch's breath warm against his neck, Basch's fingers pressed against his sides, Basch's chest pressed against his. Then Basch begins to move, slow, steady thrusts, and Balthier forgets what it was that he was thinking about, and then all he can think is _Basch_. When Basch's hand wraps around Balthier's prick, he nearly forgets himself and shouts, biting his lip at the last moment to strangle the cry. Basch has not forgotten what Balthier favors, what brings him pleasure, and Balthier nearly whimpers from it, Basch within and without, so real and so good. It's nearly too much, sending him too high, too far away, but before he thinks he may dissolve from the goodness of it he breaks instead, and the world is white and shattered.

When he comes to himself again, Basch is still thrusting, one hand curled loosely around Balthier's softening prick. Balthier's head is foggy and muddled, but he is able to bring one hand up to press against the back of Basch's neck, and he turns his head to mouth Basch's ear.

"Don't take too long," he murmurs.

Basch grunts; it may be acquiescence, it may be something else entirely. But his thrusts do quicken, and some endless seconds, minutes, perhaps hours later, he tenses and groans out his climax.

They lie wrapped around each other for a time, Balthier feeling drowsy and fine, and then Basch moves, letting down Balthier's legs. Balthier sighs as he stretches them, easing the ache in his thighs, hissing as Basch pulls himself out and away. Basch covers them both with the sheet and curls against Balthier with a contented hum.

Balthier finds that the easy lassitude that comes after copulation does not help him to sleep. Instead, he lies with his eyes open for long hours in the fading day, gazing at Basch's face. He knows this face well: his scar, his eyes more nearly gray than blue, his beard. He knows the timbre of his voice, the tones of his speech, more nearly Dalmascan than Landissan or Archadian. He knows.

\----

I thought it, at first, an apparition, a specter, a phantom. The hair was the wrong color, yes, and his dress was Rozarrian in style, but I recognized his walk, his manner, and--from what glimpse I had--his face. I nearly ran after him; behavior most unsuited to a Judge Magister, but what could I do? I caught him by the shoulder and turned him to face me, dreading and anticipatory both, and when I saw that it was truly him I could not suppress the exclamation. "Balthier! You live!"

"I should say the same of you," he said, stiffly. "Last I saw you was in the back of the _Strahl_ , and you seemed rather the worse for wear."

Of course, I realized; he did not know, and he saw only the helm. As always, the mention of my brother gave me pause, caused a low, brief ache, but these were slighter and fewer now; Noah had atoned, in the end, and died with honor, and I carried that honor now.

"Come," I said, hoping that he might hear the urgency in my voice.

Apparently he did not, for he took exception. "What?" he demanded. "Who think you--"

Impatience took the better of me, and I did not wait to hear the rest of his query. Instead, I all but pulled him, as if he were a balky chocobo, to the manor and past the guards, who thankfully seemed to believe that they should not question if Judge Magister Gabranth wished to accost young Rozarrian men and drag them under Ondore's roof. I took him into the first available room, a parlor which was thankfully unoccupied, and bolted the door.

"What of Fran?" I asked, removing my helm.

Balthier's voice was low and angry. "She's well; but why do you ask? I--"

I have found that kissing Balthier is, most often, the most expedient method of quieting him; the man is garrulous, and given silence will desire to fill it with the sound of his own voice. His lips were slack at first, but soon warmed to the kiss, fitting against mine the way I recalled.

I pulled away, and saw the recognition cross his face.

"Much has happened, since you've been. . . away," I said, and only as I found the proper word to complete the sentence did the anger overcome the amazement and relief. "How could you not _tell_ us? Tell me?"

"If I told you, would you have kept it secret?" he responded. I knew that I would not have, could not have, and he nodded. "It was. . . convenient, I suppose you could say."

"Convenient?" I was incredulous; convenient, as if it did not shred me into pieces to think that my brother and my lover both were dead, all of a day; as if Vaan did not call the _Strahl_ "Balthier's ship" for months, awaiting Balthier's return; as if Penelo and Ashe did not search the inside of Bahamut for their corpses, dreading what they might find. I wanted to hit him.

"I do not need to justify my actions to you," Balthier said, stiff again. I nearly did strike him then, except that he questioned, "What of Gabranth?" and all the anger was snuffed out of me, like a lamp.

"Dead, that day," I said, and saw the sympathy on Balthier's face. But it was an old sorrow now, one wrapt in new duties and tasks, fresh memories of a young prince growing into manhood. "I take his place, now, to protect Larsa as he could not."

"So your brother once took your name and likeness to slay a king, and now you take his to shield one," Balthier said, careless and bitter at once; it was unlike him, and startling to me.

"It is cruel of you, to speak so ill of the dead," I said, unwilling to allow myself to be provoked.

After a brief silence, he said: "Forgive me. It is a shock."

"Let us not quarrel," I said; he did not move when I touched his arm. Balthier looked down at the gauntlet and began, in the manner of a man distracted, to tamper with one of the clasps. It brought a smile; it seemed, then, that he was not so far changed.

\---

They do not have so many taverns in Rozarria, tea being the preferred beverage of choice here. The tea houses close late--"when the candles burn down," as their current establishment says--and people talk in low voices throughout the night, smoking sweetly-scented pipes, surrounded by empty pots of dark, fragrant tea and small plates of fruit.

"Bervenia, eh?" Balthier absently taps a _pesil_ coin against the scarred surface of the low table. "Long way, isn't it?"

"The farther, the better, I think," Fran replies. "It grows too warm for us here."

"I cannot help but agree with you. One does not see very many viera and hume pairs." Balthier sighs and stretches, the coin flat on the bench between them, winking dull orange in the candlelight. "Perhaps it's time to stretch our wings a big further, eh?"

"We will need the _Strahl_."

"Of course." Balthier picks the coin up and spins it on its edge so that it forms a miniature golden sphere. "We can hardly get there without her. Not that I'd like to," he adds, swiping the coin up in his hand as its trajectory begins to falter. "She's as much a partner in this as you and I are."

Fran inclines her head. "We will need to return to Dalmasca, then."

Balthier walks the coin across his fingers and makes it disappear. Simple coin tricks that he learned in his youth; some use them to entertain crowds, and others use them to keep their hands limber. The coin reappears by his thumb. He's not certain he's ready to return east. There's a freedom, of sorts, in letting his hair grow long and blacking it, in watching his skin grow tan from the sun, in drinking tea late into the night and waking to the wailing calls to prayer. He speaks Rozarrian now, albeit badly, and he can sit on his knees for hours at a time. But he misses the sky, it is true, and there are amends he must make, in his past life.

"You are uneasy," Fran observes. She has been patient in all this: with Balthier's desire to travel under assumed names and eat exotic foods. But she is a viera, after all; when Balthier is gone, she will find another partner.

"Can't help it, can I? That place has been bad luck for us." Balthier closes his fist around the coin. "Well, there's nothing for it. We need the _Strahl_ , as you say."

"I will make ready our things," says Fran. "To where will we go?"

That gives Balthier some pause for thought. "To Bhujerba first, I think," he says at last. "We'll be able to purchase supplies there, and we're not likely to run into anyone we know. At least," he adds, "not 'til we're ready."

\---

Noah was still and composed in death, hands clasped on his chest. In the ordinary course of things one hand would grasp his sword, but his swords were mine now, as my grave was his; he would receive a pauper's burial, unmarked, without weapon or armor to comfort him. I would wear his life as well as I could, but still I regretted this necessity; perhaps, when I too had passed, the truth could be spoken and Noah would receive the interment he so richly deserved.

I did not think of Balthier; there had been no word from him, since Bahamut made its final descent. But that did not mean that he too, was--

"Basch."

I unbowed my head and saw His Royal Highness--no, His Majesty there, one hand against the wall. His eyes were verged with red, but he was still and composed, his chin high, every inch the emperor. I had spoken true to my brother, then; he was a good master. He would be a good master.

"You need not do this," he said, quietly; his eyes were on Noah, and the edges of his mouth were curled with grief. "I will not hold you to it."

"I hold myself to it," I said, and rose from my brother's side.

His armor was heaped in the corner where we had stripped it from him so that we might heal and bind his wounds, still caked and stained with blood within, but there was no time to clean it now. It was much dented; the cuirass was bent in the back where Vayne had flung him and prodded me uncomfortably and unrelentingly, as like a memory. The helm gave me pause, when at last I held it in my hands; near half of it was torn away, and the gap would surely show the telltale scar.

"Only Judge Zargabaath knows your face," His Majesty said, when he noticed my hesitation.

"Your pardon?" I found that difficult to acknowledge; surely a man in such high regard, with so many comrades--

"Judges are not people, but the law, and as the law does not relent, neither do the helms. Judge Gabranth would not wear it, I think, were it so damaged," he added, after much thought.

"Or he might," I murmured, "if it were a symbol of his duty."

I did wear the helm, then, as the _Strahl_ docked with the _Alexander_ , allowing me to escort His Majesty to rejoin his countrymen. As His Majesty had predicted, none save Judge Zargabaath took any notice of my condition; he wisely said nothing, and I was soon sent to my brother's quarters, ostensibly to rest and recover.

I lay in my bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, and wished for someone to speak to, but there was no one. I thought that it was no great trial to love Larsa, but I did not know that I could learn to love Archadia, who had taken all that I had ever cherished.

\---

"The _Strahl_ , she is free," Fran reports.

"So she is," Balthier says grimly, kneeling beside the final battery housing. The radio crackles distantly in the corner; Gabranth's voice commands all units of the Archadian army to cease fire. That cannot be him; they all but carried Gabranth to the _Strahl_ , and his voice was labored, with not enough breath between the words. A squirm of dread twists in his chest at the thought that Gabranth might not be invincible, after all.

"It troubled you, to battle him," Fran observes, whilst she deftly plucks and rewires the tubes and cables; some of them have been damaged, leaking fluid, but Fran knows her way around an engine, which ones she can tie off and which ones she can tie to each other. "But more, when he joined you in battle instead."

Balthier pauses in fishing the appropriate tools from his bag: a wrench, a screwdriver, three battery cores. "You notice too much, Fran." He thinks of Gabranth's battered face when they pried off his helm at last, how Basch gripped his brother's hand. His stomach aches. All that he accomplished whilst running from his past was to collide headlong with it.

Larsa is speaking now, an emperor already. 'Died honorably in battle,' indeed.

"I have eyes and ears," Fran says, crisply. "It is my duty as your partner."

Ashe speaks words of freedom. Ivalice looks to the horizon, or so it will until the Occuria finds another toy with which to tempt. They are the Undying, after all; they can afford to wait. "It seemed as if he were the old Gabranth again, when he stood with us at the end," Balthier murmurs. "But before--" Machinery grinds and wails around them. Bahamut shudders, and Balthier nearly knocks his chin into the console. He curses. They've struck the paling. "We don't have much longer. Fran, perhaps it'd be best if you--"

"Quiet."

"Fran--" Already he regrets asking her to come with him--although, indeed, there would have been no way of preventing her.

" _Quiet_."

Fran's tone has not the force of a reprimand, but a command; Balthier falls quiet, and he realizes that Judge Zargabaath's voice now issues from the radio. "He's not--oh, that old fool," he mutters, searching for his dropped wrench. "He'll kill us all, and Rabanastre in the bargain. Fran, see if you can't patch us through to the _Strahl_."

"You ought make amends to Basch." A brief fizz, a crackle, a flash of white light.

"Whatever for?"

"We will die. The _Strahl_ , she is far from here."

Balthier closes his eyes, briefly. "I know."

"You knew, when you boarded Bahamut the second time." Another sizzle, and the static from the corner radio grows louder. "I regret nothing, Balthier. Here, you may speak your peace, now."

\---

I knew not how we arrived once more in Balfonheim; presumably it was Balthier's doing. I knew not, either, how we found ourselves berthed in Reddas' manse once more. It was not 'till I saw my armor laid out on its pallet, already groomed and oiled, that I wondered if my brother still lived. I thought of his corpse buried with the Sun-Cryst and came back to myself only when I realized that my hand throbbed; I had closed my fist so tightly 'round the hilt of my sword that it ached. Suddenly heavy with exhaustion, I laid the sword by my armor and stood. Such thoughts would do no good to anyone.

I padded down the hallways in slippered feet, as was the custom in the manse; the servants held their heads low in grief and spoke in hushed tones. They directed me to Balthier's quarters, but I hesitated before the door. For what reason was I here? What, in fact, did I believe I was going to say?

He who hesitates is lost. I knocked, and waited for the answer, which was not long in coming: "Who's there?"

"Basch," I replied, uncertain as to my reception.

"Basch?" Balthier did not sound as if he was grieving. He sounded weary, and perhaps perplexed; I knew not what I had expected. "Well, come in, then."

The room was dark, but the moon shed light enough, and I could see that he sat on a chair by the window. He was stripped down as if for sleep, though the bed did not appear to have been touched. He held a paper cigaret in one hand that filled the room with its stench, though the window were open. After such a day as this, I did not begrudge him it--though I was startled that he indulged in such a habit--and in fact found myself thinking wistfully of Landissan spirits.

"You ought to rest," I told him.

"I might say the same of you, Sir Basch fon Ronsenburg," he replied; the tip of the cigaret glowed orange-red as he held it to his lips.

"I do not like what I see when I close my eyes," I confessed. I shut the door behind me then, as Balthier did not show any signs of rejecting my presence.

"Ah. Is that why you came here, then? That I might help you forget?"

There was bitterness in his tone; I could not quite see whether he smiled, and it unnerved me. "No. I came to see how you fared."

There was a slight pause before next he spoke. "You are kind, to do so."

"It has been a trying day, for all of us," I said quietly.

That provoked a chuckle, at least, and there was true affection in his reply. "As usual, you do ever under state the situation." The ember of the cigaret glowed bright once again, and then Balthier smothered its flame on the windowsill and flicked it out into the ocean. "I am as well as one can reasonably expect. I entertain no thoughts of self-slaughter, nor am I one given to tears. Does that satisfy you?"

I gave the statement much thought. Balthier is not one given to forwardness; one must come at him sideways, or from behind, in order to catch him off his guard. "No," I declared. "You are as well as one can reasonably expect, but that does not mean that you are untroubled. Indeed, no reasonable person would expect your mind to be so unencumbered."

Balthier sighed, then. "What is it that you want, Basch? Would you like to tuck me into bed and perhaps tell me a story?"

"Would that help?" I asked, and was gratified to have startled Balthier into a laugh.

\---

This is Gabranth, Balthier thinks, his eyes closed and head tilted back while lips kiss gently down his neck and linger on his collarbone. A warm, broad hand comes up to rest on his face, thumb gently caressing his lips, and Balthier thinks: This is Gabranth's hand against my skin. He opens his mouth and licks that thumb. It stills, briefly, just long enough for Balthier to suck it into his mouth. He laves it with his tongue, sucking it deep so that he feel the hard callus against his lips, where the sword rests. He still has calluses like those, on his palm at the base of fingers and the valley between the index finger and the thumb. They are less prominent now than the calluses from his gun, on his trigger finger and the heel of his palm, where the gun shudders back against him from the force of the shot.

Balthier hears unsteady breathing from somewhere above him, and he smiles around the thumb and sucks hard, once only, before releasing it. The thumb flicks damply against his nipple, making Balthier gasp. He thinks: Gabranth is teasing me.

A warm mouth draws in Balthier's prick, and Balthier breathes deeply, pulling one knee away to allow for more access. He thinks: This is Gabranth's mouth on me, and he must remember to breathe. If he does not breathe, he will not last, and he wants this to last. The mouth is steady and gentle on his prick, drawing up to lash the tongue around the head and then down 'til it meets the fist wrapped around the base, so that his entire prick is enveloped in heat and pressure. It ends too quickly and lasts too long; Balthier is drunk with pleasure by the time the mouth slips away and strong hands tug at his shoulder to turn him on his belly.

Balthier feels himself spread open, and he cannot help the brief hitch of his breath; he knows what is coming. A tongue, lapping at his entrance, working him open, deeper and then shallow again. Balthier fists his fingers into the sheets and allows himself a moan, low and long. The tongue worries at his opening a while longer, until Balthier is dazed from it, and then withdraws to be replaced by an oiled finger. It does not burn until the second one is added, and then Balthier hisses. The finger stops and does not continue until Balthier jerks his hips back in an impatient motion. Then there is a chuckle, and both fingers are in to the root, thrusting in and out, curling and uncurling against the spot deep inside that makes Balthier groan and thrust into the sheets.

He whimpers when the fingers retreat, but he also shivers in anticipation. The warmth and pressure of a prick is not long in coming, although it is slow. Gabranth is always so slow, so careful. It flatters him to be treated with such care, but he is no fragile flower; he will not break from a minor amount of rough handling. "Hurry," he whispers, but Gabranth takes his time, pressing in slowly. Balthier growls, but it appears there is no incentive that will cause him to hurry. He is slow in drawing out as well, and his thrusts are so steady and regular that Balthier thinks he might tear the sheets. He rolls his hips up against every stroke in a way he knows drives men mad, but Gabranth is made of sterner stuff than most, it seems.

The thrusts do become more erratic, eventually, and by then Balthier is liquid from it, moaning into his pillow. He can see his climax, shimmering and hazy like the horizon on a hot summer's day, but he cannot seem to make himself reach for it. He feels every thrust in his fingertips and in his teeth. He needs something to give; he needs something to break. Then the thrusts grow quick and abrupt, and suddenly stop altogether, accompanied by a thick, sharp cry. Balthier buries his face in his arms and shudders.

He feels empty when the other man withdraws, as if the wind might blow right through him, and still his groin throbs for completion. He's not left so for long; he's turned again, so that his prick faces the cool air, and then a sweaty hand closes round it. It takes only a few strokes before he shatters with a wordless cry, and then he opens his eyes. Basch lies down beside him, and Balthier hums in contentment and runs one hand along the side of his face. He thinks: This is what it might have been like, with Gabranth.

In the morning, perhaps, they will conjugate again, and then Balthier will not be so passive. They go to the Pharos tomorrow, and it will be long before they have such privacy again; he wishes to make the most of it.

\---

We made camp in the Feywood that night. So mysterious and dreamlike seemed the place, but its wood burned like any other, and the fire cheered us with the very commonness of its nature. The Mist plucked at our clothes and hair and obscured our vision, but Fran seemed calm enough, and so I did not let it trouble me. We would take our rest in turns, for the Mist made it impossible to see when an enemy was near until it was too late.

I did not sleep well, and I was near relieved when Balthier woke me for my watch. Neither did he immediately lay himself down, I noticed, though I was well alert and did not need his safeguard. He said he would claim his rest soon enough, when he found himself weary enough for it, but I suspected that the Mist brought him restless dreams as well, and did not press him. Let the man decide what he wants.

"What occupies your mind, then, with the end of our journey so close upon us?" I queried, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the others.

"Endings, mainly," Balthier replied. "I'll be glad to be rid of you lot; I've had nothing but trouble since."

"Surely we have not been such a trial," I said, with an ill attempt to conceal my smile.

" _You_ have not, perhaps. You are much like Fran: easy on the eyes, useful in a pinch, and quiet unless called upon for your opinion." He sighed, but I could not help but find myself flattered, knowing how highly he held Fran in his esteem. "It would be discourteous of me not to ask, as you have already done: What weighs so heavy on your mind?"

"I find myself thinking of Kladdus," I offered, turning my gaze to the Mist, recalling that I was to 'ware of danger.

"Kladdus?" he repeated, sounding faintly astonished.

" _The Unsung of Ramooda_ ," I said. "My father used to tell me the tale; do you not know it?"

"'This is the story of neither gods nor saints, but men who would become heroes,'" Balthier said quietly. "'Hear ye well, for the quality of a man's heart lies not in his bearing but in his courage.'"

I was startled, for those words were familiar but strange to me; they possessed a rhythm and a depth that the lines my father spoke had never owned, and Balthier spoke them with the greatest respect and affection. "You do know the tale," I said.

"Yes. I know a great deal of poetry."

"I did not think pirates to be so poetic," I said.

Balthier smiled. "Pirates are the most poetic of creatures." And he began to recite again:

"'My comrade, my tender companion, my love, I see in your eyes that you long for the place of your birth.  
I see in the curl of your lips that you yearn for the shores where the great seas heave up the sun.  
I see in the set of your brows that you ache for the broad skies of the lonesome hawk.'  
Tonight here we break our last bread and we sing the sword-songs of the heroes,  
And tomorrow we die where we stand, and no songs will be written of us.  
So my partner, my friend, hero of my heart, you need not for my sake stay."

"Unkenid does not abandon him," I said.

"He would no sooner do that than Kladdus would abandon what he perceives to be his duty." Balthier's gaze went out into the Mist where, somewhere, Giruvegan--and his father--awaited us. "Much like someone we know. But Kladdus dies in the end; I have never been fond of that part."

"But he is victorious," I reminded him.

"But he did not know that," Balthier replied.

\---

"You and Fran are partners?" Basch says.

"Yes, I believe that is what they call it." Balthier sees Fran's ears turn back toward them. "But in the usual way of things, you are not one to state what is so clear to others." He watches Fran's stride for signs of a limp. It is common for viera to refuse all but the most necessary of healing spells and curative items, forsaking them for the more natural methods of healing; as a race, they distrust any method of recovery that may result in complications later in their long, long lives. They have their own salves, their own philtres and elixirs, and Fran prefers these over Balthier's chemistry.

"I ask because I fear that you may, perhaps, do her--and yourself--an injustice." Basch sounds distressingly earnest. Balthier has no idea what he might be talking about. "And I, for my part, have no wish to participate in such an affair."

"Affair?" Balthier repeats. "Basch, what in Ivalice--"

"Pit fiend!" Vaan yells from up ahead, and then there is no more time for talk.

There's never only one pit fiend; it always has a friend, and the commotion of battle draws the zombie knights from their resting places. But pit fiends are easily dealth with; one good slash of Basch's sword severs a wing, and the pit fiend yowls and drops to the ground, writhing, where Ashe dispatches it with her spear. Balthier fills the other one with shot, and Fran finishes it with an arrow to the throat. The zombie knights, at the last, are easily felled with Penelo's Cure spells and Vaan's quick daggerwork. When the caves are silent once more, Balthier calmly and Vaan eagerly claim their loot, and they carry on, though Balthier loiters, that he might refill his gun.

Basch paces himself to match Balthier, and his voice is low. "But perhaps I am mistaken, and you and Fran have come to some sort of understanding," he says. "But I fear that I cannot be so understanding."

Balthier looks up from observing Fran's gait once more. "What?"

"I speak," Basch says gravely, "of fidelity."

Balthier nearly drops the gun from his nerveless fingers. Somewhere ahead, Fran ducks her head swiftly, ears turning to the fore again. He has to take care to pitch his voice to a hiss, so that it does not echo off the cave walls. " _Fidelity?_ "

Basch's countenance shows clear surprise. "You said she is your partner."

It is a struggle to keep the horror from showing on his face. It could not be any worse if someone had suggested that he preferred buggery with chocobos. "My partner in _crime_ , not in--no, we are companions of the road, nothing more. As if Fran would stoop to that, anyhow," he adds. " _That_ would be an injustice."

"Ah." Basch's tone is relieved. "I feared that I had trespassed."

Balthier's response is dry. "If you had, then you might have cause to fear. But then, I cannot say I know how viera feel about such matters. All the same," and here Penelo's inquiring cry interrupts them; she has noticed that they have fallen behind, "I believe we had best join the others, before they begin to speculate."

"And you, Balthier?" Basch's voice is low and urgent, halting Balthier in his tracks. "How do you feel about such matters?"

"I believe that actions speak louder than words," Balthier replies, and speaks no more on the matter.

\---

Balthier, clad only in shirt and trousers, crouched by the stream with one sleeve rolled near to his elbow, inspecting the red weal the Kris had left on his arm. He frowned over it for a moment, then sank his arm into the surely-freezing water; after a few minutes--my skin shivered in sympathy--he withdrew his arm and inspected the mark again.

"You acted quickly, today, and bravely," I said. "Vaan surely owes his life to you."

"If not his life, then his odor," Balthier said, stripping himself of his shirt. "I did nothing more than one of you would have, had you been closer."

"But none of us would have thought to imbibe the remedy as the creature breathed; that was cleverness on your part." I had never seen Balthier barewaisted before. His arms were thin, but corded with muscle, and his chest was lean and covered sparsely with pale hair. A yellow-green bruise spread across the ribs of his right side, and I recalled the Seeq thief we'd met not long ago, who thought he might surprise us and met my Francisca instead.

Balthier sniffed the shirt and wrinkled his nose, then dropped it in the water. "Was it? I thought it fairly elementary." His hands went to his trousers, then, and I held my breath, but he made no move. "Why did you follow me here, Basch? Surely your liege awaits you at the camp."

"I," I said, and then the words would not come any longer. "I find that--in the past I have--I think I may have been in error when--"

Balthier's eyebrows went steadily up as I fumbled through my words. I have never been very eloquent of tongue, and nearly always clumsy with my emotions. At last, though, some nearly imperceptible change came over his bearing; the tension left his muscles, and he took a step closer to me. I dropped my gaze to the ground, suddenly filled with anxiety. His feet were bare.

"You know," he said, his voice filled with amusement and wonder both, "past disagreements aside, I could almost believe that you were making advances upon me."

It was on my tongue to say no, but at the last I turned it to, "Yes."

The silence that followed was terror and triumph both; I seemed to have silenced the pirate at last. And then, with nothing left to do, I grasped him by the shoulders and covered his mouth with mine.

He was not slack with shock for long; swiftly, he wrested control of the kiss. I felt some strange, heady joy, then, for I'd missed this, oh, how I'd missed it. I'd thought it impossible to find such camaraderie again, given the delicacy of my current situation. But Balthier, clever Balthier, whose motives might be questioned but never his loyalty; I could do worse than to love this man. Indeed, I could not see how I might do better.

He did not seem disposed to cease kissing me--and indeed, I was not disposed to stop him, and so whilst his hands tangled in my hair I bid mine to wander down his back and onward, sliding one 'round to the front to cup his groin. This elicited a groan into my mouth, which pleased me, made my own groin feel overwarm and heavy. But this I owed to Balthier, first, and I unfastened his trousers so that I might draw out his prick.

Balthier lost focus in the kiss not long after I began stroking. His eyes fell shut and he did not open them again, his breathing heavy and irregular. He clutched at my shoulders and groaned, with a hitch in his breath on occasion as I turned my hand to run the palm over the leaking head of his prick. Once, he made a sound that was nearly to a whimper and sank his teeth into the bone of my shoulder. Before long, he began to shiver--so quickly, Balthier?--and before my hand could tire he shuddered out his completion, biting his teeth together against a cry.

I nearly could not believe what I had done. Balthier all but lay upon me, supporting himself by virtue of his hands on my shoulders, his breath warm against my skin. I found myself afraid to speak, but it seemed I did not need to, for Balthier roused himself and slid down, slowly, and I gasped as he undid my trousers and put his mouth upon me. I did not know where to put my hands, at first, and finally I twined them in his hair, thick and soft to the touch. Balthier made some contented sound like that, near a purr, and then sucked my prick into his mouth.

Warmth, and wet. He was gentle, without teeth, and seemed to know, instinctively, what would please me. He's done this before, I thought, but the thought did not surprise me; of course Balthier had done this before. He kept both hands on my hips, working me only with his mouth, but this was more than enough. Looking down to see my hands in his hair, his mouth on my prick, Balthier on his _knees_ , was more than enough.

"Balthier," I said, roughly, not sure what I meant to say beyond that, only feeling sure that speaking his name was important.

He drew away. "Don't speak," he admonished, gently, and I fell silent.

\---

"So, we return to your homeland," Basch says, after Ashe departs with their coin. Balthier thinks, ruefully, that he was never so strapped for gil before he began traveling with this bunch.

"How so?" He did not think the princess would be so careless as to divulge their conversation so soon. But Basch is Basch, and the princess is the princess; perhaps she considers it her duty to tell her knight such things.

"You make no attempt to disguise your accent," Basch replies. Ah, so it is not the princess spilling secrets, then. But it is as Basch says: it is hardly any secret. "How does a man of Archadian noble descent become a sky pirate restoring a Dalmascan princess to her throne?"

"That I am a sky pirate must surely tell you that I have no great loyalty to the Empire." Balthier feeds another stick of driftwood to the fire. The wind off the ocean is sharp, here. Vaan and Penelo are out in the surf, attempting to spear their supper with Ashe's weapon. Fran has disappeared to wherever it is viera mysteriously vanish to. Hopefully, it is to find supper; Balthier has no great hopes from the Rabanastran urchins' efforts. "I was a judge once, if you must know." At Basch's startled intake of breath, he adds, "Your princess already knows."

"She is not as candid with me as I might wish," Basch murmurs.

"I dare say she thought it no affair of yours." Vaan gives a cry of delight in the distance, which soon turns to a yell of dismay. Another hunter, a bangaa, snarls at him to cease his foolishness. Balthier cannot hear Vaan's reply. He hopes the boy does not cause them to be ejected from the camp; this is the first night in a long while that they will not need to set watches.

"A judge," Basch muses.

"I did not take to the life. I find that I am worse at being authority than being beholden to it." Balthier prods the fire with another stick; one of the logs slides and splits, sending up a shower of sparks.

"Did you--" Basch stops. "Nay, do not mind me."

"Now that you have piqued my curiosity, I find myself disposed to mind." Balthier drops the stick into the sand and looks at Basch, who is staring rather intently at his hands, a troubled cast to his brow. "Out with it, then."

The words come slowly, as if he has to drag them out on a chain. "I only wondered if you knew my brother."

Not as well as I might have liked, Balthier thinks, and then he recalls Gabranth's harsh voice echoing off the walls in Nalbina. "Actually, he was my commanding officer once." He looks at the fire so that he does not have to see Basch's face, where the shadows leap in shades of gold and red and black, and his hair is painted russet by the flames. "I recall him being very authoritative."

"He has changed, so much," Basch murmurs.

"People so often do," Balthier replies. "It is an annoying habit."

\---

There was once a great city here, or so the tales said, and now there were only ruins and the carapaces of once-great airships. The wind bit into our hands and faces, howling mercilessly at us from beyond the cliffs, and for once I missed my beard. Progress was slow. It would grow dark soon, I thought, and then we would have to find shelter, for travel by night was too dangerous here, where one careless mistake might send one onto too-thin ice, or plummeting into a crevasse.

Penelo held her hands over a gash on my arm, a lucky strike from a wolf that did not live four seconds beyond inflicting that wound, when all at once the green light of the spell faded. She stared at her hands, puzzled, and though her mouth shaped the words, I heard none of them. At first I thought it only to be the wind, carrying her voice away, but then I was blinded by ice crystals spearing my skin and clothing, shattering against my armor and freezing my sword to its sheath. Whilst I struggled to free it with numb, bleeding hands, Penelo shuddered and fell to the ground. The elemental whirled and surged, pulsing with magick. The princess came at it from behind, but her axe passed uselessly through it, and it flung her into a drift with a blast of ice.

Balthier interposed himself before me then, snapping a lightning mote one-handed. Lightning surged and leapt at the creature's heart, and it gave a confused flutter and cast its silencing spell again, uselessly. I freed my sword at last. Balthier broke another mote, distracting the creature, then seized my jaw and forced a flask between my lips. My teeth chattered against it, but I felt the blood return to my hands as the potion did its work. And none too soon, for the elemental quickly recovered and spat another spray of needle-sharp ice at us. Balthier took the brunt of it to his back, between us as he was, and he flinched and gasped and pressed a lightning mote into my hand before collapsing to one knee.

I was not as deft with my hands as Balthier, so I broke the mote with my sword before I threw it. The elemental trembled with lightning, and I flung myself at it before it could recover, swinging my sword, seeking the core within it that I might strike. The elemental swarmed and palpated, preparing another spell--and then I found its heart. It was like beating a solid stone of ice and my fingers and wrist cried out in pain at it, but I did not relent. Then another lightning spell crackled around me, and with a queer, hissing cry the elemental simply dissipated, its feystone dropping to the ground. I found that I held my sword only because my hand was too stiff to release it.

I turned to see Fran on her feet, albeit unsteadily, ice still rimming her ears. Presently, Penelo sat upright, phoenix down still tangled in her hair, Balthier kneeling beside her. His hair was matted with blood, and there were still fragments of ice caught in his armor, but his hands were steady as he administered a potion. Fran found Vaan and Larsa nearby and murmured the Raising words. I claimed a phoenix down and went in search of my liege, heart juddering in my chest at how close I had come to failing her, were it not for Balthier's quick thinking. He has been more than a welcome hand, in this.

\---

Balthier is in a sour mood. He is wet; as a matter of fact, everything is wet, including the wood, which is why they have no fire. Their only shelter is a dessicated adamantoise shell, brittle enough that they were able to force themselves an opening by dint of sheer brute strength, and there is a strange funk to it. If they ever have need to travel this again, he thinks, they will bring tents or stay aboard the _Strahl_. And to make matters worse, he has only the Rabanastran street rat for company; Fran has disappeared with Penelo, ostensibly to teach her more of the magickal craft (hopefully they will discover some spell that will let wet wood burn), while Basch and Ashe have hared off somewhere, presumably to speak of royal matters or manners concerning royalty--though were Basch less honorable, Balthier might imagine what Basch and Ashe are doing. He sighs. It is not that he precisely _minds_ Vaan's company, but Vaan's idea of what constitutes conversation can be a little lacking.

"Hey," Vaan chirps, having exhausted the topics of airships, Balthier's jewelry, airships, viera, airships, and airships. "Why did you take Ashe's ring?"

"Compensation," Balthier replies, attempting to wring some more water from his sleeve. His hair, at least, is beginning to dry, no longer matted against his scalp. "Surely you know what that means?"

"I know what it _means_ ," Vaan says. "I'm not an idiot, you know. But, I mean, why that ring? She seemed really attached to it."

"There's no sense in asking for something without value."

Vaan frowns. He's mercifully silent, then; Balthier does not think he can tolerate more of the boy's chatter tonight. The wet and the cold have drained him. Balthier attempts to make himself comfortable on the ground, which is, as expected, extremely cold and hard, and things longingly of his cabin in the _Strahl_.

"That doesn't make any sense," Vaan declares at long last. "If you asked for it just because she seemed really attached to it, well, that's not anything you can actually sell, is it? To anyone else, it's just a ring."

Balthier opens his eyes. Vaan is prone to the occasional flash of insight--amusing to an outsider, but in this case it's been turned on him when all he desires out of life, at this moment, is to be well-rested, if not warm or dry. "I never said that I asked for it _only_ because it seemed of great sentimental value to her. A princess' ring is quite valuable--although, if you must know, that was the wedding band of the late prince's."

Vaan's eyes widened. "That was her _husband's_ ring? And you took it? That--that was really mean of you, Balthier."

"I never claimed to be a good person," Balthier retorts, closing his eyes once more. "Besides, what good is the past to anyone?"

\---

I found Balthier in what appeared to be a sitting or dining room of sorts. There were no windows; what was the point? They would look out only on the dark, dreary streets of Lowtown. But there was a small round table with three chairs; Balthier occupied one, his hands clasped round a chipped mug. He appeared deep in thought. I stood by the doorway, uncertain as to whether I might intrude. But he looked up, then, and seemed unsurprised to see me there.

"Ah," he said. "You wake. We began to wonder, after a time."

"Where are they?" My voice rasped unpleasantly from sleep. Balthier pushed his cup toward me; I sat beside him and drank, choking when I realized it was spirits. Watered, to be certain, and foul to the palate, but still it stung the throat. It burned warm in my belly, a dangerous flame.

"They've gone to Nabudis," he said, not sounding in the least as if he had been nursing strong drink. I set it back on the table. "What's left of it, in any case. I believe the princess wished to pay her respects. Vaan and Penelo accompanied her. Fran is gathering information."

"And you?" I queried.

"Running," he said, cryptically. "Would you like some? I dare say it would do you some good."

I thought of Vossler on his knees in the Leviathan, his last words to me of service and loyalty. My chest tightened at the recollection. He had not truly betrayed us; he had died as 'ere he lived, a warrior to the end, ever in service to Dalmasca. "Nay," I said.

"Suit yourself," he said, but he did not touch the cup again. "I am sorry," he said, his voice low; he knew something of my grief, perhaps. "I know that you and he were comrades."

We were more than comrades and less than beloved, I did not say; he did not deserve to know. But Balthier had guessed it, perhaps long ago, for he leaned forward, one hand upon my thigh, and our mouths met, gently. He tasted of spirits.

"What--" I began, slack with surprise.

"Let us be comrades," he said, and for a moment my upset gave way to anger. How _dare_ he mock me at a time such as this. "I speak not in sport. Let me have this." His hand crept up my thigh, then, 'til it rested at my groin.

This is _Balthier_ , some part of me protested, but that voice faded with every passing moment as he unfastened my trousers and drew out my prick. He was gentle and firm, deft at coaxing out my pleasure, and the unseen wound that Vossler had left was still too fresh for me to consider rejecting his advances. I let my head fall back, then, closing my eyes; he brushed his lips against the whiskers on my chin, then pressed his lips against my neck, so gently that I trembled. And all the while his hand stroked and pulled and twisted, and it could have belonged to anyone, truly, and I was shamed and titillated all at once. I shaped the words please, stop, but did not speak them aloud. What purpose would it have served? Vossler had touched me like this once, before things had gone to the bad, and my heart ached for such camaraderie again, so that even this mockery seemed sweet.

I bit my hand when I broke, to muffle the cry, and to my surprise Balthier took it and ran his tongue across the marks my teeth had left. I kept my eyes closed against the unexpected tenderness and felt Vossler's loss chasing at my heels.

"We need not speak of this," Balthier said.

I opened my eyes. There was a strange look in his eyes, something nearly wild-seeming. I did not like it. "I would prefer that we did not," I said.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and nothing more was said.

\---

When they reach the oasis, Balthier immediately divests himself of his armor, and then his shirt, which comes free of his skin with a moist, sticky sound. He has sand in crevices he didn't care to know about. Fran immediately makes herself at home beneath one of the scraggly trees; even her ears have wilted from the sun. Vossler bestows upon them a disapproving glower and then turns away, growling some nonsense about scouting the area.

"There's nothing out there but sand, and more of that," Balthier tells him. "And in midday, even the Urutan-Yensa retreat to their burrows. You would do better to rid yourself of all that heavy armor and rest; there will be no more traveling today 'til the sun lowers."

Vossler dignifies Balthier's words with a glare, then turns to the princess. "Lady Ashe," he says gruffly, "what would you have us do?"

"I believe Balthier's suggestion to be the correct one," she says, carefully, pushing sweaty hair from her face. "The journey is arduous less from the distance than from the heat."

"We'll make more ground when half of us aren't on the verge of fainting," Balthier says. Penelo and Vaan have already plunged their faces into the pool of water; he'll predicts they'll commence splashing each other in three minutes, perhaps four.

Vossler's face darkens, but he grunts his assent and unbuckles his breasplate and pauldrons. Balthier does not miss how Basch's eyes dwell, if only for a moment, but a moment too long; then he turns away and kneels at the oasis to splash water on his face.

Afterward, whilst Vossler discusses strategy--clad only in his leathers, now--with the princess and Vaan and Penelo lie drowsing in the shade with Fran, Balthier remarks to Basch, "You do not regard him as one would a comrade."

"How now?" Basch says. He has apparently appointed himself filler of waterskins. Balthier suspects it is only so that he has something to do. Basch dislikes the feeling of uselessness.

"Your eyes linger on him like most men's do on Fran's legs," Balthier so helpfully elucidates.

Rather than amusingly vehement denials, Basch's tone turns flat, without inflection. "You know not of what you speak." Ah, he's struck a nerve, then. Balthier has never seen Basch truly incensed; indeed, he does not know if the man is capable of it.

"There's no need to be so coy," Balthier responds, affecting innocence. "You need not defend yourself against _me_."

Basch grunts and sets aside a water-heavy waterskin. He dips another one into the water. "Leave it be, Balthier."

"You have not denied it," Balthier muses, "and if it were false, you would have. However, that you do not wish to discuss it may indicate that you are shamed. As you would do nothing that is not honorable, I dismiss this as a possibility and turn to the idea that it is simply an intense desire for privacy on your part, which may well be the case. However, I must attend to a third possibility, which is that while you appear to regard him as something more than a comrade, he does not do the same for you." He watches Basch's face carefully. "Am I correct?"

Basch's features do not change. He watches the water flow into the waterskin. "Leave it, Balthier," he repeats.

His curiosity satisfied, Balthier does.

\---

The rooms were luxury itself, nearly decadent; we were each permitted our own quarters, with a private bath. I made the most of it, washing and shaving myself with the greatest care and attiring myself with the provided robe, but afterward found myself restless. The hours passed too slowly, and I found myself adrift and ill at ease, pacing the room in ever tightening circles, gazing out the window and fingering the trinkets that adorned various surfaces (a clock, a bell, a statue of a Bhujerban _brahma_ I vaguely recalled as the spirit of home and hearth). Were Vossler here, I knew, he would mock me for my restlessness; a warrior always took his rest where he could, for he knew not when the next peaceful time might come again.

I found myself on the bed, eyes closed, but slumber did not find me. The bed was soft, its frame carved from some fragrant wood, and far too large for one man. There were no covers here, only thin sheets, a concession to the frequently warm and humid Bhujerban nights. My eyes closed, as if that made some difference to my shameful behavior, and I reached below my robe.

It had been long since I'd taken myself in hand--since before Vossler and I had shared a bed, and the realization made me ache. I missed his hands, his mouth, the scratch of his beard. No truer comrade-in-arms could one find than he, and no better companion. It was not love--no, love was between men and women--but something close to it, perhaps something more, we admired each other so greatly and passionately, and now I felt his absence keenly. I'd feared him dead, all these years, and to find that he was not but that the trust between us was dried up was, perhaps, worse; were he dead, then I might have the memory of how we once were.

Such sorrowful thoughts kept my prick from filling. I put them out of my mind and licked my hand, that I might better seek my pleasure. It was slow to come, and I must need coax it. I spat in my hand once more and thought of Vossler's mouth, his hands, his wicked tongue, how he would suck upon my fingers, how I would leave marks upon his throat. I recalled the slick thrust of him inside me, and the warm press of my body when I entered him, the hot dark of his eyes when he used his mouth on my prick and how that very act would give him pleasure. I bit into the fleshy part of my hand, below the thumb, to stifle my groans as I worked myself with frantic desperation, wanting this to be over and last forever.

I broke, and while my seed cooled on my hand all the dark shame rushed in upon me at once. How _dare_ I, now was not the time, the sheets were soiled now, had I no control at all--and under the Marquis' roof! I dared not even wipe my hand, but I was now too lax to consider rising from the bed and washing my hands. And so I lay, and thought of my audience, and what I might say in order to regain my duty, and I did not think of Vossler again.

\---

"I have heard tell of an entrance to the ancient palace of Nabudis," Balthier suggests.

Fran shakes her head; once only, but once is enough, from her. "A fool's errand, that. It is a Necrohol now, swarming with fell mist."

"Hmmm." Balthier rests his chin on his hand, careful to keep watch on the tavern door; one never knows when a fan might come calling. It's tough being popular.

"There are great caverns that lie to the west," Fran offers. "They stretch from the Yensan Sandseas to the Ozmone Plains. There may be something of great profit there."

"Might there?" Balthier ponders. "Still, I prefer--"

A commotion at the door causes all heads in the tavern to turn. Balthier's hand goes to his gun, whilst Fran reaches for her bow, one hand cocked above her quiver. The calamitous intruder shows himself to be nothing more than a blue bangaa, one unfamiliar to them. Balthier relaxes, but only slightly--and then the bangaa begins to yell.

"Balthier!" he howls. "I know you're here! Come out!"

"Perhaps it's time for us to make our exit," Balthier whispers sidelong to Fran. The bangaa is no headhunter--he is unarmed, and he seems advanced in years for such an occupation--but Balthier has no desire to stay and see what the bangaa wants of him. But it is too late; the bangaa sights them and bounds up the steps with great celerity for one his age.

"You!" the bangaa cries, pointing a dramatic, stubby claw. "It was your doing that Penelo was kidnapped!"

"Me?" Balthier says. "You must be mistaken. I have nothing to do with kidnappings. Messy affairs." Penelo, Penelo. . . a girl's name, surely? He does not recall it, and yet it has a familiar note. Ah, Vaan called a girl by that name, earlier, when they were taken. She was crying, or on the verge of it, and Balthier, gallant by nature, gave her a monogrammed handkerchief. Oh dear. "This must surely be some sort of misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" the bangaa exclaims. " _Misunderstanding?_ "

"Yes." And now Vaan has entered the tavern, followed by. . . is that _Basch_? "As I said, a misunderstanding."

Vaan is able to find them immediately, of course; all focus on the tavern is on them, and it is not as if the tavern is very large. But all Balthier's attention is on Basch, who has groomed himself and found a change of clothing since last they met. His garments are garish and ill-fitting--clearly cobbled together from cast-offs and bazaar bargains--but it is amazing, what a shave and a trim of the hair have done for his appearance. There is little dissimilarity between Basch and his brother now, and their bearings are much the same.

"It's Ba'Gamnan," Fran recalls Balthier to the matter at hand. "He was in Nalbina."

"If anything were to happen to that sweet child--why, I've her parents' memory to consider!" the bangaa cries, waving his arms about most emphatically. "You're going to her aid, and that's that! It's what you sky pirates do, isn't it?"

Sky pirates go to the aid of others? That is no definition Balthier has ever heard. "I don't respond well to orders. You do know that the Imperial Fleet is massing at Bhujerba?"

"Fine, then I'll go," Vaan cuts in, his youthful face bright with determination. This Penelo really matters to him, eh? "You at least have an airship, don't you? Just get me there, and I'll find Penelo myself."

Basch takes them all by surprise. "I'll join you. I have some business there as well."

Balthier, much to his own dismay, finds himself reconsidering.

\---

Lowtown was much as I recalled: a warren of narrow alleyways and dead ends. I attempted to avoid the gazes of the people I passed, who were uniformly ill-kept and flat-eyed; their steady gazes unsettled me. What had happened, in the years after Dalmasca's demise as a sovereign state? It appeared that now nearly all Dalmascans lived belowground, like rats, whilst the buildings above were filled with Imperials and those who had curried Imperial favor. The bile rose in my throat as I trotted the streets; I found that my feet still knew the way.

"Basch fon Ronsenburg," a voice called from within the abode I sought. I readied myself for flight and fight, but then a familiar dark face emerged.

Old Dalan, we had always called him, and I saw that he had not changed one whit. He grinned gap-toothed and beckoned that I enter. "How did you know?" I asked.

"Old Dalan knows all," he said with a merry chuckle. "Is that not why you and your friends would come to me, desiring to know bazaar secrets, the locations of rare marks, which lizard would win the betting races? Hmmm?" He settled on his ubiquitous green cushion, and I found himself awash with nostalgia and memories; indeed, it was as if I had never gone on that ill-fated mission to Nalbina.

"Yes," I said, settling on my knees. The man preferred being addressed in this manner; we had allowed him his idiosyncrasies, as his knowledge was too valuable for petty arguments. "The resistance," I began.

"So word reaches even the ears of the dead man. Yes, the resistance, they seek you; in fact," and here he gave a knowing smile and tapped the side of his nose, "they are close by."

The door banged open. I rose half to my feet, hand on my sword; ill a blade as it was, it had served me well, and I had no intention of--

Vossler Azelas had not changed a day either, it seemed. He strode into the room with the same fire and presence as he had before, and then stopped as surely as if the spell had been cast on him, staring with his mouth agape and eyes wild. It would have been comical, had I not been quite certain that I bore the same expression. So he had not fallen, after all, at Nalbina.

Old Dalan broke the silence for us. "Should you not greet your old comrade-in-arms?" he prodded, gently.

"Vossler," I said, too late recalling that perhaps I no longer had the right to this familiarity.

I had thought myself prepared, but Vossler lunged at me barehanded, his teeth bared in a snarl. I had my sword only half out of its sheath when he bore me to the ground, cracking my head against the stone tiles and dazing me. He was more heavily-attired than I, clad in true armor than the ill-fitting rags I had found for myself in the Barheim Passage, and his weight was too great for me to resist, thin and wasted as I was from my long imprisonment. Old Dalan saved me, gripping Vossler by the shoulders; though he could not loose Vossler's hold, he could shout into Vossler's ear.

"Vossler Azelas!" he rapped out in a manner reminiscent of an old drill sergeant, years long past. "Cease this; look at the state of the man! Does he seem a kingslayer to you?"

Vossler took in my attire, my growth of hair--and perhaps, my stench, for his wrinkled his nose and drew back slightly, his grip loosening 'round my throat. "How is it that you live?" he nearly spat.

The answer was instant and familiar to me. "To silence Ondore," I croaked, feeling my neck for the bruises surely forming there.

Vossler's brows knit together; I had once found the look endearing. He gathered his legs below him into a proper kneel. "So you are what yokes Ondore to Archadia."

"Aye, but no longer. By your leave," and here I bowed my head, "I would fight by your side again."

I had not wanted to hope that we would be comrades again, but hope does not follow the dictates of the will. They weighed heavy in my heart as Vossler was silent too long. At last, he said, "Come. I would not have words with you in such a state. We will find you garments, and a razor." He offered me his hand.

I grasped it, and felt myself borne to my feet by his strength. "Thank you," I said, and searched for some sympathy, some kindness in Vossler's face. I found none. Behind me, Old Dalan gave a sigh.

\---

Vaan completely disregards the new addition to their party, charging recklessly into their foes so that he becomes nearly as much a liability as the bare-handed, unarmored Basch. Basch, at least, is no stranger to barehanded fighting, though he bears the yellow stripes of sword calluses on his hands. And though he owes them no loyalty, surely, he more than once interposes himself between Balthier and a bat, or Vaan and a Battery Mimic, or Fran and a zombie, once, when they allowed the lights to flicker.

"I did not mishear, did I, when they announced his execution?" he murmurs to Fran as he kicks the scattered remains of a mimic.

"He lives to silence Ondore," Fran recalls.

"Mmm. It reeks of politics. Conspiracy. I don't like it." He pockets a few iron scraps. To his recollection, Gabranth was not one for deliberate cruelty. But his behavior toward this prisoner, this man who more or less paved the road for Archadian occupation of Dalmasca, stank of something old and personal. "Our homeland," he said; who is this Basch fon Ronsenburg to Judge Magister Gabranth? Were they compatriots once? There is a certain similarity in features between them; likely, then, they are both Landissans.

They come into a broad, well-lit passage, where a corpse of now indeterminate allegiance lies sprawled, its blood staining dark the metal track and the gravel below it. Basch, with a singular sort of determination of which Balthier approves, kneels and begins to strip the body of its armor. It is too small for him, even in his half-wasted state, and Balthier has to avert his eyes.

"The Mist seethes," Fran remarks, distracting him.

It is obvious even to Balthier's uneducated senses. "It reeks. Something's close."

A blade scrapes across stone, and Balthier admires the corded muscles of Basch's arms as he puts himself through his sword paces; skills long-disused, but never forgotten. Balthier is quite certain that he still recalls how to wield a sword, though if he has anything to say about it, he will stay with his guns. "Nice moves there, Captain."

"You mean 'traitor,'" Vaan snaps.

"So they say," Balthier says, thoughtfully. "But I didn't see him kill anyone." The look on Basch's face may well be gratitude.

\---

Reks lay far too still, his blood pooled dark beneath him.

"Take the Captain away," their leader instructed. The soldiers that held me fast did not move; rather, the ones that had borne my brother to his knees hoisted him by the arms and made as if to carry him bodily from the room, though he struggled little. "No, the other Captain as well," the leader corrected with a smile, and I was jerked to my feet, still too numb and shocked to even consider escape.

"Noah," I whispered. "What has happened to you?"

He bared his teeth at me. "Release me."

I thought at first he spoke to me, 'til one of the soldiers that had his arm said, hesitant, "But sir--"

"Release me," Noah commanded. "And release him, as well."

At this, the soldiers looked to the leader. He did not have the air of a military man; he wore his hair long and had no armor, though he was armed with a light sword, of the sort Archadian nobility carried. He nudged Reks with one fine boot and said, consideringly, "I think it will do no harm. We'll phoenix down this one, to see that he lives long enough to speak."

The soldiers loosed me, and I looked, dazed, for my sword. Then Noah's fist crashed against my face, hard enough that I felt a tooth crack. Another blow to the gut knocked all the wind from me, and the third sent me spinning to the floor. I could not even get my arms below me before Noah knelt on my back, forcing a groan; blood welled in my mouth from where I had bitten my tongue, and I coughed and spat.

"Look." Noah twisted his fingers in my hair and forced my chin from the floor. I closed my eyes against the sight of the bloodied throne. " _Look!_ " The gauntlet bit into my face when he slapped me, and I looked. My vision watered from the pain. "This is what you have wrought," he hissed, and the wicked delight in his voice made me shudder and despair.

"Noah," I rasped. "Why--?"

He let go my hair so that I near cracked my chin open on the tile. "That doesn't really matter now, does it?" He spoke with the accent of an Archadian, now.

The floor was cool against my face. I closed my eyes.

\---

"You are no mean shot."

"Thank you," Ffamran says without thinking, lowering his gun. The targets are more properly meant for bow practice, but Ffamran has turned them to his own purposes, as of late. His father speaks more to himself and walls and furniture, and so Ffamran spends his time perfecting his aim.

Judge Magister Gabranth comes to stand at his shoulder, and Ffamran realizes who it was that complimented him, and nearly drops his weapon. "May I see?" Gabranth queries.

He cannot very well refuse. Ffamran hands him the gun. It is not a very good model, but it was inexpensive.

"This is an old model. Where did you find this?" Gabranth queries, after turning the gun awkwardly about in his gauntlets.

There is no use in lying to a Judge Magister; indeed, there is a stiff penalty for it. "Old Archades."

"Not a fitting place for a judge," Gabranth muses.

"They do not know I am a judge."

"Or so they wish you to think," Gabranth responds. "Pardon me; I wish to see it more closely." He directs the gun back toward Ffamran, handle-first. Ffamran accepts it, perplexed, but soon sees that Gabranth needs both hands in order to remove his helm, which he tucks under one arm. Only then does he collect the gun from Ffamran's fingers, which have abruptly found themselves quite unable to move.

"I have seen these in use," Gabranth says, but Ffamran cannot quite hear him over the whirlwind in his head. "They carry a great range, and the shot flies truer than arrows or bolts, and there is a great variety of it. Furthermore, it is a weapon that pierces, and so it is of great advantage against an enemy that is heavily armored. But I have been unable to convince the other Judges Magister, who still think it a weapon of effete chemists."

"There are chemists amongst my ancestry," Ffamran offers, weakly. Gabranth is golden even in the artificial light of the practice room, with comely features and blue-dark eyes that now scrutinize with respect the weapon so many others have mocked him for. Ffamran knows him to be the youngest of the Judges Magister, and a barbarian besides, but he carries himself with such utter self-assurance. He wonders that the other Judges Magister do not rely more upon his word; he speaks with such purpose and conviction.

"Perhaps that offers some explanation for your talent, then." Gabranth returns the gun to him, handle to the fore as before, and turns a brilliant smile upon Ffamran. His breath catches in his throat; he is reminded of a line from the playwright Sofoc, how an expression of delight may be no more rare than pebbles on a shore, yet bring more joy than the rarest tailfeather of the phoenix, and he knows himself in love.


End file.
